


Saccharine

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Banana Fish Fluff Week 2019, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, I just want them to be happy, Kissing, M/M, New Year's Kiss, What-If, it's what they deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-30 12:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17224259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: Ash had never been fond of sweet things, but he found himself increasingly amenable to exceptions.[A series of drabbles written forBanana Fish Fluff Week 2019.]





	1. Dreams/Forever

* * *

“Forever” feels like an impossible promise; ordinarily, his heart would curdle beneath his ribs the moment someone made idle vows based on an unknowable timeline. “Forever” only existed in the dreams he forgot the moment his eyes opened. 

But Eiji’s fingers were soft as they ran through his hair, tracing wordless assurances against his scalp and sending a small shiver of pleasure down his spine. Eiji’s body was warm and sturdy as Ash lay his head against the gentle slope of Eiji’s thighs; even despite the chill that had seeped into the apartment, he seemed to radiate heat.

Eiji’s hand rested on his back, larger and warmer than he remembered. It was a meager cocoon, but Ash curled eagerly within it as the edges of his consciousness succumbed to slumber.

* * *

For the first time in years, Ash’s dreams do not twist into nightmares. 

Ash dreams of warmth and banalities. 

He dreams of strong coffee and Eiji grimacing at its bitterness; he dreams of sitting at a coffee shop and learning the names of pastries and confections, licking powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth. He dreams of arriving at a crosswalk moments before the light flashes red, grabbing Eiji’s hand and laughing as they race across.

He dreams of entwined fingers and heat pooling in his stomach, rising in his cheeks. He dreams of soft lips and wide eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate.

Ash awakens to a comforting weight against his waist, remembering how his stomach fluttered in his dreams when Eiji’s fingers grazed his.

To dream is strange; to remember them is foolish, but he allows himself the indulgence.


	2. Affection/Trust

Eiji’s first kiss is in a room bordered by men in orange jumpsuits and COs staring ahead impassively. The room smells like stale sweat and bleach; this close to Ash, he can also smell his shampoo. 

Ash’s mouth is warm and dry against his, thumb grazing his cheek with bewildering tenderness. Even in the midst of the wordless shock numbing him, he feels a greedy sweetness suffuse his veins. 

His heart races until he feels Ash’s tongue against his — and something else, smooth and foreign.

The pieces fall into place.

_Ah. Of course._

The butterflies fluttering in his stomach collapse, and he pretends not to feel disappointed.

* * *

Eiji’s second kiss almost never happens.

Ash’s personal space is a minefield that repopulates indiscriminately. 

Ash will sigh gratefully when Eiji shampoos his hair, letting his fingers linger and massage his scalp, but recoils if their legs brush against one another while they watch television. Ash is content to walk around the apartment in boxers, licking spaghetti sauce from his fingertips, but becomes shy if Eiji notices one of the countless scars running along his back haphazardly, as if a mad sculptor had forgotten that the smooth, fair medium beneath his chisel could bleed. They share a single bedroom in a three-room suite; Ash likes to feel Eiji’s body against his back while they fall asleep, but Eiji can count on one hand how many times he’s woken up to find Ash still there. 

The bed feels cold without Ash to warm it, but he hates the nights where Ash has nowhere else to go moreso. On those nights, Ash wakes up in a cold sweat, trembling from screams lodged in his throat. He curls up against Eiji’s chest, clutching at his nightshirt like an anchor, until they’re both lured to sleep by the sound of one another’s heartbeats. Ash always falls asleep first, leaving Eiji plenty of time to brood.

Even after a year in America, Eiji finds it embarrassing how his tongue seems to twist around its language, at how the flood of things he’d like to say is butchered and diluted. Expressing himself in English requires a measure of bluntness that is equal parts refreshing and humiliating. English sneers at ambiguity. Even in Japanese, however, trying to explain the turbulent, painful sweetness that Ash ignites within him is impossible.

_It’s just as well,_ he thinks.  _I’ve never been one for words in the first place_.

He learns to find breaks in the wall between what he feels and what he hopes Ash understands, learns how to take these messy feelings and tuck them within the cracks for Ash to find later; he learns where to find the bundles that Ash leaves in reply.

“You must think it’s weird,” Ash murmurs one day, his voice a low rumble against Eiji’s chest, “for me to be like this.”

“You’re not weird at all.”

“I don’t want to be,” Ash continues, as if he didn’t hear. “I want to be normal. I wish I knew how.”

Eiji’s heart fills with lead, the way it always does when he thinks of the phantoms that haunt Ash’s nightmares and memories. 

“You don’t have to be anyone but yourself. You are fighting your demons — it can’t be easy, but I can tell that you’re trying.”

Ash smiles humorlessly.

“At some point you’ll get tired of waiting for me to figure out how to beat them,” he says. 

Eiji shakes his head, looking down at Ash and meeting his gaze squarely. How vulnerable he looks like this, with flushed cheeks and sweat clinging to his hairline. He places a hand tentatively against Ash’s cheek; Ash leans into his palm, eyelids fluttering shut. Eiji hopes in vain that he can’t hear how feverishly his heart is racing.

“I said I would wait forever for you, Ash. I meant it.”

“Forever’s a long time. It feels longer when I _want_ this to work… whatever ‘this’ is. I want to stop running away when things feel… right. Good. Wanting things is dangerous.”

_Want._

The word sends a small thrill through him.

“Baby steps. You have already done so much. I’m proud of you,” Eiji says fondly. He hates how blunt and graceless it sounds, flushing at the implications that he didn’t know how to avoid — even if they were true.

“Does it embarrass you to say such things? Your heart’s racing,” Ash says, a knowing smile creeping onto his features. Heat floods Eiji’s face and his voice is caught in his throat.

He hadn’t realized how close Ash’s face was; he could count every eyelash, could see the light freckles on the bridge of his nose. Ash chuckles quietly at Eiji’s sudden shyness; he can feel Ash’s breath against his neck. Ash looks up him, gaze heavy with something unnameable, and Eiji couldn’t have looked away even if he wanted to.

“You’re so quiet, Eiji. Cat got your tongue?” Ash whispers. It’s a childish tease, but something about the low timbre of Ash’s voice sends a ripple of heat through his stomach. The room is dark, but Ash’s eyes seem to capture even the smallest fragments of light. 

“You did. Remember?” Eiji feels almost proud of himself for being able to tease him back in spite of the haze beginning to settle over him. Ash frowns, the softness in his expression tempered by confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

Eiji’s confidence putters out. He hadn’t expected Ash to demand an explanation.

“You… ah. Well. You are a ‘wildcat’. And… you used your tongue. So… you had my tongue once before, yes?”

Ash blinks momentarily before his expression shifts — amusement, he thinks, but sweeter.

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“It was my first kiss… it would be very difficult not to.”

“I hardly think that counts.”

A small icicle wedges itself squarely in the middle of the lush warmth that had begun to spread through him; he can already imagine the next words to follow — in English, no less.

_It didn’t mean anything._

“The timing was all wrong.”

“Eh?”

“Well… they’re supposed to be special — fireworks, warm and fuzzies, all that shit. I don’t think me shoving a pill in your mouth with my tongue would do that for anyone.”

“I didn’t… hate it. It wasn’t all bad.”

Eiji can’t bring himself to admit that even an objectively sub-par kiss had still made him lighthearted and buoyant; the way Ash’s eyes widen slowly suggests that he’s already figured it out. He bites his lip as if debating whether or not to give voice to sudden temptation; Eiji can sense what it might be by the way Ash seems to melt against him, the way his eyes flicker towards Eiji’s lips for the briefest of moments.

“How about a real one?” Ash says, voice barely audible above the sound of both of their hearts beating furiously. Eiji’s hand still rests against Ash’s flushed cheek; he uses it to guide their lips together.

This is  _nothing_ like what they shared in prison.

Ash’s lips are warm against his, passionate and endearingly clumsy in a way that they hadn’t been before; every nerve in Eiji’s body seems focused on memorizing the way Ash feels and tastes against him, the way he makes a soft little moan as Eiji traces the outline of Ash’s mouth with his tongue. 

There’s something more to this, Eiji thinks, something that was there before but buried underneath layers of distrust and uncertainty. The Ash laying against him, kissing him with a desperation only tempered by needing to catch his breath, is open and pliant, exposing the fragile, beating weakness beneath his ribcage.

Words are clumsy and impossible to fully convey; Eiji hopes that his lips and tongue say all the things he cannot, eloquent in a language both of them can understand.


	3. New Beginnings/Firsts

Eiji is superstitious about firsts.

Eiji cleans the apartment top to bottom on New Year’s Eve, sweat beading on his brow as he scrubs at the counters and floors until they’re nearly reflective. Ash almost offers to help but keeps quiet; Eiji almost looks like he’s enjoying himself, singing along quietly to a song with an upbeat tempo and unintelligible lyrics. Ash instead asks why he’s doing housework on a holiday.

“A clean home is very important! You don’t want the first thing you see during the new year to be a dirty floor, do you?”

Eiji has never kept their home anything but immaculate, but Ash says nothing, busying himself with the dishes instead. 

He bustles around the kitchen well before the sun peeks above the horizon, gathering and slicing up ingredients that Ash has never seen — not even in Nadia’s kitchen. Eiji’s hands are nimble and eager, piling roe on shiso leaves and arranging beans and mochi into careful shapes while unknown things simmer on the stove. He’s particular about color schemes and flavor profiles, but Ash can’t begin to guess the pattern. When Ash asks him why he’s making such a fuss about breakfast, Eiji shoos him away, eyes already swiveling toward the next task.

“The first breakfast of the year is the most important,” he says brusquely, as if it should have been obvious. “So I have to make sure it’s done right.”

The resulting spread is overwhelming, a dizzying array of color and texture. Ash has no idea where to even begin, wondering briefly if the ornate foods are even appropriate to eat. Ash’s confusion must be apparent; Eiji hands Ash a pair of chopsticks, beaming. 

“Dig in! But make sure you pick the most tasty-looking one first! The first bite is—”

“—the most important?” Ash offers helpfully. 

“Yes!”

Eiji told him to pick the tastiest; Ash doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he has no way of knowing, as he’s never eaten any of this before. He eyeballs a relatively safe-looking item with rice and seaweed; Eiji looks longingly at a fish cake with salmon roe, and Ash makes a mental note to take anything but that.

They eat in relative silence, munching contentedly as commercials and daytime talk shows drone in the background. Every so often Ask asks about a particular item and basks in the warmth that blooms in his chest when Eiji answers, eyes bright and tone eager; Eiji sometimes takes for granted that Ash doesn’t know words like  _kuromame_ or  _kamaboko._

Far from being awkward, the silence between them is soothing; Eiji doesn’t feel the need to fill the gaps in conversation with small talk or prying questions, doesn’t shift uneasily waiting for an order or reprimand. 

“Would it ruin your good luck if I made your first cup of coffee for the year?”

Eiji looks up, seemingly upset with himself.

“You do not have to make me anything, Ash. You already do so much.”

“Eiji, you cleaned the entire apartment and made me a goddamn banquet. The least I can do is get you something to drink. It’s not much,” he admits, looking down and hoping that the heat in his face isn’t visible. “But I’d like to be able to give you _some_ kind of ‘first’.”

Eiji is quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. 

“On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I would like tea. And I will add the sugar myself — you Americans use too much,” he says, smiling sheepishly.

Ash can’t help but smile in reply, making his way to the kitchen to sift through the cabinets for loose tea and a strainer. He’s reminded of Shorter spitting out a dumpling Nadia had made, muttering something about salt and cooks being in love. Ash didn’t quite understand what he’d meant at the time, only that the guilty flush on Nadia’s face meant that he must have struck awfully close to the target. 

Ash’s eyes involuntarily settle back on the brunet in the living room, nibbling on shrimp and giggling along with the laugh track playing on television.

Before he knows it, his hand is reaching for the sugar dish.


	4. Just a Little Too Much (Free Day)

His favorite moments are the ones that translate poorly into Polaroids.

Ash makes a beeline to the frozen foods aisle when they visit the supermarket, especially in October when greens and reds of summer transform into warm gold and orange. Gourds of various sizes and colors begin to fill the produce section; Ash makes himself scarce. Eiji rolls his eyes and Sing pretends to be interested in the frozen pizzas Ash sifts through to stall for time. Ash picks the same one every time, but Sing dutifully keeps up his end of the charade, helpfully supplying the pros and cons to cheese lover’s versus Hawaiian when asked.

Eiji has been cutting vegetables since he was old enough to hold a knife, but his eyes still burn and water when he chops an onion. Sing knows to expect it, but like clockwork he and Ash begin to hover closer to the kitchen counter when Eiji sniffles in front of the cutting board. Ash makes a crude remark about Japanese food and visibly relaxes when Eiji scowls back; Sing knows Ash would rather chew glass than admit why he has to make sure each time. 

His favorite days are those when they do absolutely nothing, all three of them sprawled out on the three-piece sectional in Ash and Eiji’s living room. Ash flips through channels and settles on Food Network. They all shift every so often, resting against one another’s thighs when the soft drone of the TV lulls one of them into a brief nap. 

A generic blonde smiles while explaining how to make an absurdly ornate cake while decorating the fondant draped over it. Ash snorts, shaking his head.

“Too sweet,” he mutters. “Look how much sugar she used, you’d keel over from diabetes before finishing the damn thing.”

“So you say,” Eiji murmurs, voice low and muffled against Ash’s leg. 

“Meaning?”

“There is a reason I ask Sing to make tea instead of you,” he says. 

Sing tries to hide the smile on his face, the bloom of heat in his chest.

“Don’t feel so smug about it, pipsqueak. You can’t even grow a mustache,” Ash snarls.

“I’m still growing. I bet I’ll be taller than you in a few years.”

“That’d be rich. Shrimpy Sing becoming Goliath.”

Sing frowns at the implications, the warmth in his chest shifting into something painful.

"Goliath is the bad guy, dumbass.”

Ash raises his hands in mock surrender, though the fierce grin on his face softens when he sees Sing’s pout.

“You will become like wedding cake on TV! Very big, but very sweet, yes?”

Ash and Sing both turn towards Eiji, their breaths suspended somewhere between disbelief and laughter. Eiji’s smile crumbles, seemingly disappointed at the reception.

“Is wedding cake not sweet?”

“It’s very sweet,” Ash says patiently, allowing the amusement to seep into his voice.

“Then it is perfect analogy,” Eiji states simply, his words trailing as he begins to fall back asleep halfway into his sentence. Sing’s eyes are wide, looking between Ash and Eiji in confusion.

“It appears I was mistaken. Our little muffin will become a wedding cake,” Ash says, his voice nauseatingly kind, eyes glimmering with mischief. 

Siji mutters an insult in Cantonese that Ash will have no way to counter, but the smirk on his face suggests that he understands the intent. Ash leans over to ruffle Sing’s hair; his thumb lingers against Sing’s cheekbone, against his lower lip when he withdraws. 

Sing isn’t sure what to call the warm, fragile thing between the three of them, acknowledged only in uncertain smiles and shared body heat, in touches just a fraction too long and tea made with too much sugar. 

_Small excesses_ , he thinks, _just the right amount of_ _‘a_ _little too much’._


	5. Coffeehouse

Eiji hasn’t visited a coffee shop since 1986, when Ash dragged him to the one just across the street to try “the best damned bagels in New York”. Eiji remembered the coffee more than the bagel, which was strictly “okay”, by his definition; he didn’t dare suggest that it had too many sesame seeds. 

The coffee itself wasn’t particularly special, either; it was light and had just enough bite to make him appreciate the cream and sugar that much more. But he remembered the quiet surge of pleasure when he’d offered to let Ash try some of it, mesmerized by the imprint of Ash’s lips on the mug. The coffee seemed to taste sweeter when he drank from the same place Ash had. The flush on Ash’s face when he caught Eiji turning the mug, tongue flicking towards the rim, made his stomach warm in a way that he knew the coffee hadn’t. 

But it was 1995 and Eiji had refused to so much as acknowledge that he’d ever gone there. He was content to eat the bagels that Sing brought home, heaping generous amounts of cream cheese on them just to watch Sing look on in horror. 

“You can’t even taste it past all the cheese!” Sing would shriek, half-theatrics just to wring a laugh out of Eiji. Eiji would cackle and take a bite large enough to nearly choke on, and Sing would shake his head in mock disapproval.

“You know,” Sing says one day, his voice suspiciously nonchalant. “Their coffee isn’t half-bad, either.”

“I… uh. Tried it once. It was alright,” Eiji says, voice quiet. 

“Maybe they’ve changed the beans since… the last time you tried it. Couldn’t hurt to see if they’ve gotten it right.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Sing laughs uneasily, halfway between embarrassment and anguish.

“Right. Well. I brought some home because I was curious, myself. I’ll let you know how it is.”

With that Sing gets up stiffly, walking towards the coffee grinder and busying himself with everything that involves not looking Eiji in the eye. Eiji feels something unfurling in his stomach — sweeter than guilt, he thinks, but too dark to be hope. It feels like the first step on a rickety bridge spanning a yawning canyon, too deep to see its bottom. 

It’s safer to stay near the edge, he thinks, refusing to acknowledge the bridge at all easier still. If there’s no bridge, then there’s no need to acknowledge the terrifying depths beneath it, or the jagged rocks at the bottom. 

Sing returns to the table, steaming mug of coffee in hand. Eiji risks a glance inside the mug and stifles a laugh.

“You won’t be able to taste the coffee with that much cream in it, Sing.”

“No one asked you,” he pouts, taking a sip and glowering at him. His expression softens once the full flavor of the coffee hits him.

“It really is good, cream and all. You sure you don’t want to try any?”

Sing extends the mug towards Eiji. He imagines Sing standing on the other side of the canyon’s bridge, extending a hand towards him, urging him across. Sing is backlit by the sunrise, surrounded by lush foliage, and Eiji is reminded that only someone who had crossed the same bridge would appear on its opposing edge.

Sing would never be cruel enough to coax him to cross a bridge on the verge of collapse, he thinks.

Eiji takes the offered mug, grinning as he turns it to find the place where Sing had first sampled its contents. Sing’s cheeks redden, and he can’t help but smile in return. The coffee tastes sweeter than expected, and he knows that neither cream nor sugar cubes are to thank.

“You’re right — it is good.”


	6. Countryside

Shorter could see Ash’s seemingly impenetrable wall crumbling, brick by brick.

The first brick to fall, he thinks, is when he sees Eiji walk downstairs to join them for breakfast. Eiji’s hair is tussled, and as he stretches, his shirt lifts to reveal the smallest sliver of a toned stomach. Shorter looks over toward Ash, and whatever teasing he considered dissolves. 

He’s known Ash for the better part of two years, and can count on one hand how many times he’s seem him smile, but he’s never seen Ash look so tenderly at someone. The sharpness from his gaze is gone, replaced by something far warmer than he though Ash capable of; the corners of his mouth lift into the shadow of a smile. Perhaps it’s the sunrise streaming through the windows, but Ash’s cheeks are dusted the faintest shade of pink, easily denied if Shorter asked about it.

Ash looks  _smitten._

Something somersaults in Shorter’s stomach, lingering between relief and joy; he’d rather bite off his own tongue than risking saying anything to sour the sweetness in Ash’s expression.

The second brick is when he looks out from the window of the cabin in Cape Cod, and wonders if he’s looking at someone else. 

The blond is wearing Ash’s t-shirt; his stature is identical. But the blond outside the window wraps his arms around Eiji, guiding him into the correct posture for firing a gun; he seems to lean into the closeness in a way that the Ash he knows doesn’t, warmed by it in a way that Ash wouldn’t be. The smile on his face is boyish and disarming, and immediately he’s reminded of Nadia’s Christmas cards and the first time he saw Ash laugh. 

The final, undeniable brick are the days where the three of them would disappear for hours in the countryside, scraping together wrinkled dollar bills and quarters to purchase ice cream and French fries from a dilapidated diner. Ash’s hair was wild and unkempt as he hung from a tree branch, shrieking in delight as he and Eiji raced one another to the peak and dangled precariously by their legs. Ash, who was always disturbingly well-groomed, was grimy with sweat and dirt, skin sunburned to the color of a ripened peach. Ash’s lips, so often curved into either a scowl or a smirk, were sticky with smeared ice cream and grease and spread in a guileless smile. It isn’t until later that Shorter figures out why Ash looks utterly alien.

Ash looks  _happy_. 

Ash looks like every other teenager that would run through Central Park in the summer, buoyant with warmth and giddy freedom. Not for the first time, he wonders how few opportunities Ash has had to allow himself to feel anything other than wariness or suspicion, to allow himself to relish warmth and vulnerability.

Ash and Eiji lay sprawled in the merciful shade of an oak tree, clothes damp from swimming in the river. Ash’s t-shirt fluttered in the wind, hung to dry from a low-hanging branch. Eiji snored quietly while Ash looked on, equal parts fond and ferocious, as though daring someone to intrude on their sanctuary.


	7. Future

The future was a dangerous thing to dream about.

Dreams planted seeds that demanded sustenance, and Ash knew better than to sow a garden that would never see a harvest. Ash’s life was drought with just enough precipitation to keep the soil from eroding completely. The soil was rich enough to dig, to get stuck under one’s fingernails, but too arid to cling to what it was offered. 

Still, Ash vainly planted one seed — only one, and only because someone else had given it to him, presented with both hands cupped eagerly around a clay pot rich with potting soil and fertilizer.

Eiji was a fountain overflowing, offering nectar that Ash gulped down greedily until it ran down his chin, until he felt himself gasp for breath, until he felt himself swoon as it sat heavy in his stomach. 

A fragile sprout peeks through the soil, curled in on itself protectively; Eiji cradles it in his lap, allowing it to bask in his warmth.

Little by little, the sprout unfurls.

* * *

The place where Ash’s heart should be is an open chest cavity, shattered ribs and exposed viscera hemorrhaging. He vaguely wonders why no one seems to notice the gore; a path of smeared red footprints leads from the warehouse to where he sits, trembling,

trembling,

trembling.

He feels sunlight shroud him, arms pulling him closer to its origin until he feels himself bathed in it. He closes his eyes and allows the threads of light to sew him back together; he can feel his heart beat once more, frightened but emboldened. 

The once fragile sprout is now a stem; buds and thorns begin to emerge from its side.

* * *

One moment, Ash clenches Eiji’s letter in his hand, head resting against a desk, and muses on how quickly the cool wood seem to sap his body heat. He can feel hot, wet heat in his side, pulsing dangerously in time with the slowing thud beneath his ribs. He counts them, smiling bitterly when they begin to grow more lethargic with every passing minute. 

The next moment his awareness dims to perfect black, and Ash thinks of a stem being yanked from the soil, roots naked and screaming in terror.

* * *

Ash feels unbearable warmth trickling into his veins, thawing ice only tangible once melted. 

“The roots,” Ash says, and startles when he hears how weak and slurred his speech is. 

“The roots?”

The voice that answers is heavy with sleep and tears on the cusp of being shed. Even half-submerged in an induced slumber, those tendrils of warmth caress him, beckoning him.

* * *

Ash’s body thrums with restlessness, each second hand seeming to take an eternity to tick. 

Exactly 180 of them stretch between him and freedom.

His reflection in the mirror is horrifying: deep shadows beneath his eyes, blond hair limp and matted from weeks lain flat, and cheeks nearly drained of their color. The collar of his hospital gown dips and the bone beneath it seems more pronounced. His lips are chapped, his eyes wide and defenseless.

He looks weak, so unbearably weak. He feels withered, a transplanted stem starving for something unnameable; it would take nothing to twist and snap him in two.

The door creaks.

“Ash!”

Eiji crosses the threshold before Ash has time to fully process what he’s seeing, but he feels something within him arc towards it instinctively.

Eiji nearly collapses into his lap, arms wrapped tightly around his waist as his shoulders shake with uninhibited sobs; he can feel Eiji’s tears dampen his leg, thin and bare beneath the hospital gown. A bouquet of nine red roses lay at the end of the bed, tossed aside in Eiji’s haste.

Ash places a hand on Eiji’s shoulder, drawing him closer; he allows himself to lean into the embrace, resting his head against Eiji’s back.

There are countless things he wants to say —  _I’m sorry_ and  _thank you, I missed you_ and  _why are you still here —_ buried in the cracked soil, as if to shield something desperate to remain hidden, to avoid being trampled on so soon after transplantation.

It’s only when Eiji looks up, eyes glassy and reddened from weeping, that he find it, thorns shed and buds unfurling. He drinks in the unabashed warmth in Eiji’s expression, the way his lips quiver and eyes move restlessly between Ash’s eyes and his lips. 

“You’re back,” Eiji stutters, seeming to choke on the words as he says them. 

Ash places his hand on the side of Eiji’s face, streaked with tears, and marvels at the familiarity of the gesture; he remembers years ago how Eiji had shivered, uncertain but pliant beneath his lips. He’d hardly needed coaxing, the brown eyes fixed on his wide, but trusting. 

He isn’t certain what expression Eiji is making now, his eyelids fluttering shut as he leans to close the gap between them. His heart hammers beneath his ribs and something violent and joyful dances in his stomach. Eiji shifts against him and he feels rather than hears a soft whimper of pleasure against his lips; Eiji kisses him back, and it feels like millions of fireworks erupting within him, a garden of light in full bloom.


End file.
